It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 33: Chapter XI (Cont'd)

Coarse and Offensive Language. Domestic Violence. Reader Discretion Advised.

They have come in many forms, those little voices of the head. They are the Muses. The Givers of Delight. Fairies and Inspirations, Visions and Revelations. Fates. And yet, when Bud Carr first opened his mouth, it was himself he heard, himself the source of influence. When he opened his mouth and began his life's work under the bright light, when the sudor had dried and the nerves ceased their quaking, he was at once transformed. No longer Bud, he was Someone. A creature of boundless length that unfurled before the onlookers, not in him, but of him. He was It, and They would never be apart.

And They were free!

He felt the air fill his gut, the song leave his lips, the panic and worry banished to exiled corners of his being; and Bud Carr was the historian, only conscious enough to be vaguely aware of what was happening around him. It was through his eyes that he could feel the simpering faces of the patrons turn to looks of shock, then amazement, then downcast realization that they were witnessing something greater themselves. They were the first to experience what would become a Majesty. A Great! They were the first to behold the Name that would captivate the generations to follow. That Name to be sanctified and so nearly deified.

And Bud curled into the warmth of his Creature, feeling the music swell dimly around him, the foreign words and tune that had no meaning or value, save the value of an awakening!
And on the Creature carried with song, still a calf, still lacking its full and mature and throaty splendor, but regardlessly enchanting.

And the band joined in, but their accompaniment stayed distant, for in the Creature he was warm and safe from distraction. He felt as if he could lie here, endlessly cuddled and at ease. The Creature, he knew, would let no foul thing hurt him, no pain come between Them.

Look at them, Bud. They want you. Look at their greedy faces! Starved faces—Look! For all their opulence, they know now they will never amount to anything. They will never be Us. They want—

You. They want you.

No. Us. We are Someone. Someone eternal. Someone to be amazed at. Someone to be worshiped. Someone always loved and wanted. We are not forgotten here. We are seen. We are wanted!

And Bud curled deeper into the Creature as the music soared and the world was lost to him, for what is the world when you finally meet yourself? What is the world when you are at peace, united, blessed, loved and removed—

And suddenly, it was all over. Before Bud knew what had happened, he was back, engulfed in the roar of applause, the cheers and raucous shouts of glee from the beautiful and classy people, whom Bud felt no more animus towards. Those wonderful people who cheered and whooped for him.

'Bow, kid!' yelled the Band Leader from his podium. 'Take a bow.' And bow Alfonso Ignatius did! He bowed, and bowed...and bowed, basking in the glow of the love heaped upon him. He kept on bowing, and the audience kept hollering, until the Specter was forced to pull him from the stage. Patrons reached out as they passed, calling to the boy, trying to touch him; and now he wanted to be touched! Now he wanted to be grabbed and held, hugged and kissed. Him alone, for the Creature so present mere minutes ago, had settled down inside of Bud, satisfied for now, graciously allowing the boy to bask in the revelry.

Just remember, Bud. We're as good as it gets.

Yes, thought Bud. I like that. I like that very, very, very much.

The Specter kept dragging his son until they reached the old man standing at the bar, wiping a cloth over his thick lenses. A flighty hope rushed through Bud.